


Line Items

by bertee



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crack, Hurt/Comfort, Incest, Infidelity, M/M, Mild Gore, Multi, Season/Series 05, Stanford Era, Teenage Winchesters, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-06
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-17 05:26:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 4,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/548088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bertee/pseuds/bertee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short fics based on a line of dialogue from each episode of Supernatural.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 5.01 - Sympathy for the Devil

**Author's Note:**

> **5.01 - Sympathy for the Devil**  
>  _"If I'd have known that, I'd have sliced your pretty pretty face off ages ago."_ \- Meg

Alastair gives her heads to practice on.

There are no bodies attached, not after the problems she had with her first attempt. (For a guy who likes taking razorblades to nostrils, Alastair was surprisingly displeased by bisected eyeballs.) Instead, it's just a knife and a head and her for days and days and days.

Like so many others, she knows she's guilty of extravagant threats. It may be more satisfying to tell Malachi that she's going to burn the skin off his dick with his own stomach acid but it's only through her training with Alastair that she's learned just how difficult torture can be.

After all, stomach acid doesn't just make itself available.

She rips the skin off face after face. Some are tricky right from the start, fibres clinging to the skin like its owner is still alive to care how much of their face is missing, but some begin easy, peeling away like a bloodstained dress before snagging and tearing at the last second.

Blood settles under her nails while she works, pushed in deep by delicate layers of flesh. Alastair drifts in and out, occupied with his latest toys/pupils, but she's past the stage of constant supervision. This is for her own benefit now.

The face belongs to a man. He's young and pretty with high cheekbones and smooth skin, and when she pulls the final curves of flesh cleanly off the bone, she wants to scream with delight.

His face is light and bloody in her hands, framed by neatly cut lines, and she finally embraces the swell of pride as she looks fondly into the empty eyesockets.

She wears it for days.


	2. 5.02 - Good God, Y'all

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I'm waiting to hook up with my siblings. I've got three. We're going to have so much fun together."_ \- War

The dragon is coiled at Death's feet as War prepares to strike.

He feels the tension tug at the shoulders of his current body and he narrows his focus down to his target as he makes his move.

The dragon's mouth slides closed at just the wrong second and War lets out a frustrated sigh when the ball bounces off to roll back across the green to his feet.

"Miniature golf," says Death between sips of milkshake, "is not your forte, brother."

To his left, Famine scowls and passes Pestilence a twenty dollar bill. Pestilence pockets it smugly, sneezes, and hands Famine a box of donuts.

"This was a ridiculous idea," War huffs. "We're finally together after all these millenia and you choose to play miniature golf?"

Death shrugs. "I like their milkshakes."

"We could be feasting on a school right now," Famine says between rattling breaths. "All those greedy little hands."

Pestilence ignores him. "We voted," he says firmly. "Miniature golf won."

"Fine," War mutters, turning away to line his shot up again. He once bathed in blood for an entire decade; a mechanical dragon should not be causing him this many problems. "But next week it's my choice."

"Agreed," Pestilence says, a doctor pacifying a disgruntled patient. "Next week we'll go paintballing."

"After the orgy," Famine adds with a yellowing smile.

Death takes another slurp of his milkshake. "Obviously."


	3. 5.03 - Free to Be You and Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I just looked her in the eyes and told her it wasn't her fault that her father Gene ran off. He hated his job at the post office."_ \- Castiel

"I shouldn't be doin' this."

Gene's lips are rough as he mouths at Castiel's neck and Castiel tilts his head back with a groan.

"I don't know what it is with you," he mumbles into the collar of Castiel's shirt. "I ain't never done nothing like this before. I just- I'm having a rough time, y'know? My job fuckin' sucks."

Castiel makes a quiet noise of understanding. "In the original Greek, 'angel' means 'messenger'," he tells him. "I sometimes share your frustration with your role."

He doesn't think Gene needs to know that he's travelled back in time to have some space to deal with said frustration. Casual mentions of time travel haven't served him well in the past.

Gene clutches at him, curling strong, needy hands around the lapels of his trenchcoat to pull him in for a desperate kiss. Castiel goes with it, parting his lips at the push of Gene's tongue and shifting his knees wider as he straddles Gene's hips.

He assumes men had different ways of bonding in the 1980s.

"God," Gene murmurs, sliding his hand around to rest against the back of Castiel's thigh, "you feel so fucking good. Marlene, she won't hardly touch me like this no more. Won't even talk to me half the time. I feel like I'm goin' crazy at home."

Castiel hums. He doesn't have a wife called Marlene but can sympathize nonetheless. Sam and Dean also don't touch him in the ways he'd like to be touched.

"Some days I want to just call it quits, y'know," Gene says sadly, rolling his hips up against Castiel's crotch. It doesn't feel awful. "Just tell my boss to shove it up his ass and start over somewhere fresh. It's not like Marlene's gonna miss me, right?"

"Probably not," Castiel says honestly. Gene is not very memorable.

Gene looks up at him with bright eyes and when he grabs at his ass, there's a new eagerness there. "Then I'm goin'," he says firmly. "First thing tomorrow. No more post office, no more Marlene, nothing." He smiles up at him, hopeful and intoxicated. "Just me and you and the open road, right, man?"

Castiel processes that last part of Gene's plan.

"Oh."


	4. 5.04 - The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"So, what, you're just gonna walk back in and we're gonna be the dynamic duo again?"_ \- Dean

At some point, Sam thinks, he has to draw the line at Dean's rampant Batman fetishism.

Unfortunately, it doesn't seem like the right time to be judging when he's wearing a cape and a ski mask and brandishing an iron crowbar in front of three screaming high school girls. Especially when two of them are in his calc class.

"Stay behind the salt line!" he yells. He lowers his voice in the hope they don't recognize him and draws himself up even taller and oh god, this might actually be the worst thing Dean ever talked him into.

With Dad away on a hunt and Taunton, Missouri not offering more distractions than a run of the mill spirit, Dean somehow decided that amateur superheroism was the way to go. After a brief fight over who would be the superhero and who would be the sidekick, they settled on the 'Dynamic Duo' nickname and suited up to fight some supernatural crime.

It seemed a lot cooler when Dean explained it.

Sam's cape tangles around his arms when the spirit sends him flying across the room and he has to readjust his ski mask to see what's happening once he hits the wall. Dean's too-small pair of black jeans are ripped across the thigh and Sam can see blood running down his leg as he fumbles for the lighter in his makeshift utility belt and drags himself over to light the haunted vase on fire.

Sam would estimate that less than five percent of their choices that evening have been good ones.

The air flickers around Dean and Sam's eyes widen when the ghost lunges at him from nothingness with a furious wail.

His instinct to call his brother's name is hardwired into him and it's only when the yell has left his lips that he remembers they're supposed to be using aliases. Unable to remember what name Dean eventually picked, Sam settles on a shout of "Hey!"

The spirit looks up and vanishes a second later when Sam swings the crowbar through its body. Dean gasps for air but scrambles with the lighter until the flame bursts into life.

To the background noise of screams, he throws it down onto the splintered vase and Sam collapses to the ground in relief when the spirit shrieks loudly, writhing in the air as it's consumed by fire. He's still fighting for breath and dealing with the ache in his shoulder when Dean gets to his feet and calls to the screaming girls, "Quiet!"

Sam has to admit that he does a pretty good Batman voice.

"You're safe now," Dean continues. "It won't come back."

"Y-You saved us?" one of them stammers, and now that he can see out of both eyeholes of his ski mask, Sam recognizes her as Jaime Thomas from school. "Who are you guys?"

Straightening up, Dean puts his hands on his hips in a heroic pose. His injured leg promptly gives out and Sam clambers to his feet to support him.

The girls look up at them both with wide eyes and as ill-advised as this entire evening was, Sam can't help but feel a twinge of superhero-esque satisfaction when he says, "The Dynamic Duo."

He shoots a purposeful glance in Dean's direction. "Here for one night only."


	5. 5.05 - Fallen Idols

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I've never even seen House of Wax."_ \- Dean

It's early summer in Collins, Mississippi. The weather's already hot enough to make sweat trickle down the back of Dean's neck, and with Dad six states over, Sam at Stanford, and the ghost salted and burned, Dean's left to entertain himself.

He sneaks into the movie theater while the attendant's helping herself to the snacks and wanders down the hallway until he finds something that isn't aimed at kids aged eight and under. He doesn't know much about it except that it involves Paris Hilton, that hot blonde chick from 24, and some messy deaths, but figures that's all he really needs.

It's mid-afternoon and the theater's all but empty as Dean props his feet on the seats and peels open a half-melted candy bar while the action starts.

He promptly drops the candy bar into his lap when Sam appears on screen.

 _It's not Sam_ , he reminds himself a second later, wiping smears of chocolate off his jeans. He checked in on him a couple of months back; he knows Sam's studying hard at Stanford, not making shitty horror movies with Paris Hilton.

That doesn't help him deal with the ghoulish resemblence of the guy on screen, however. He's skinnier than Sam, with darker hair and heavier bangs, but he moves like Sam does, all long legs and gangly arms, and everytime he has a line, Dean finds himself tensing at the sound of his brother's voice.

Somewhere during his stunned fixation with the Sam look-alike, he almost forgets it's a horror movie.

His stomach flips when the guy gets stabbed.

Distantly, he knows that this is what happens, that the dumb teenagers get picked off one by one in some gruesome way, but as the guy screams in pain, all Dean sees is Sam. Nausea crawls up his throat as the guy on screen is captured and stripped and tortured, and when the screaming starts up again, Dean can't take it any more.

His hands don't stop shaking the whole way back to the motel. The two beers do nothing to calm his nerves and so against his better judgment, he finds himself keying Sam's number into the payphone in the motel car park.

The wait is excruciating, nerves building with every unanswered ring as he waits for an unfamiliar voice to answer the phone, to break it to him gently that his little brother is lying dead in a morgue because Dean wasn't there to protect him.

Dean nearly throws up for that one painful second between the end of the ringing and Sam's confused "Hello?"

He hangs up instantly and drops into a crouch to wait for his heart to stop stuttering in his chest.

Sam's alive and safe and in Stanford. He doesn't need to know that his brother had a mild mental breakdown during a Paris Hilton movie.


	6. 5.06 - I Believe That Children Are Our Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"You on the other hand? Hurting you is encouraged."_ \- Julia Wright

"This sucks."

"I know," Sam says, leaning up to unpick the manacles around Dean's wrists. The blood running down his arms matches that trickling from the wounds on the rest of his body, and Sam scrambles down from the stepladder to check on him when he drops down to the floor with a groan.

He's bloodied and beat up but Sam pats him on the thigh when he says, "I don't think anything's broken. How do you feel?"

Dean scowls at him and wipes blood from his nose. "I just got strung up like a demonic piñata, Sam. How do you think I feel?"

"They're gone now?" Sam says hopefully. It's kind of awkward when the same demons who beat Dean to a pulp let him go without a scratch. "They're not gonna come back here."

"No, we'll just get a shiny new set of demons who think poking Michael's meatsuit with sticks is an awesome game," he says bitterly. Visibly exhausted, he makes clumsy grabs for Sam until Sam helps to haul him to his feet. "How did you get the better deal here?"

Sam raises his eyebrows. "The Devil keeps telling me he wants to be inside me. How is that the better deal?"

"Because as long as you're his favorite ride, none of the demons are gonna lay a finger on you," Dean says, leaning heavily against him as they limp towards the car. "You're goddamn bulletproof and I'm the human version of Whac-A-Mole."

Sam practically carries Dean down the church steps. "At least you got the angels in your corner?"

"What, the same angels who gave me stage four stomach cancer and took out your lungs? Yeah, awesome."

His arm thumps against the metal as he rests against the passenger side of the Impala. "I mean, what happened to some good old-fashioned persuasion? Dinner, flowers, maybe some new clothes which never belonged to a lazy alcoholic called Clyde-" He plucks at his shirt with distaste. "Pie is always a solid choice."

"Lucifer came into my dream last week," Sam says blankly. "He brushed my hair and gave me a backrub."

Dean stares at him for a long moment.

Sam watches blood trickle down Dean's temple and doesn't think about Lucifer's hands working the knots out of his lower back.

"Okay," Dean says eventually. "Maybe I can live with getting beat up."


	7. 5.07 - The Curious Case of Dean Winchester

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Look, I don't know what it is you think I did to your wife or girlfriend or mother or sister, but I just want you to know, my feelings were real."_ \- Patrick

"Tell you what," he says, dropping his toothpick on the bar and flashing her an easy grin, "since it's such an important cause, I'll donate all my winnings from the night. How does that sound?"

Genevieve hesitates. He shouldn't have been gambling in the first place -- it's an otter conservation gala, after all, not the back room of a trashy bar -- but they need all the donations they can get.

Besides, he seems repentant.

"I guess that would be okay," she says, taking a seat at the table beside him. "But all of it goes to the otters."

"Every last penny," he promises.

He sweeps the cards up off the table and drops them into his pocket as the casual question rolls off his tongue, "Your husband not with you tonight then?"

"He's working," she says, trying not to let her unhappiness show through. "He sends his apologies."

"So he should," he says, voice as smooth silk. "I'd be sorry if I left a lady as lovely as you here on her lonesome."

Genevieve waves away the compliment but can't hide the blush that heats her cheeks as he leans in closer.

"Looks like I missed one," he murmurs. His fingers glide through her hair before she can ask anything further and when he pulls away, she looks up to see the card tucked between two of his fingers. 

His other hand returns to her hair as he twirls a curl around his finger and Genevieve feels a tingle of want go through her when he sets the card down on the table.

"Three of hearts." His lilt comes out stronger on the words and Genevieve bites her lip to hold back a pleased gasp when he rests his free hand on her thigh. "I'd say that's a good start."

**+++**

It's the Irish thing that gets her.

Kelly hasn't shut up about the hot Irish guy she hooked up with in Atlantic City, how he blew her mind, how Irish dudes are so much better in bed than their US counterparts, and so when Lisa caught the accent of the guy at the bar, she couldn't resist testing this theory for herself.

"Very scientific," the guy says when she tells him this. "I respect that."

There's a note of teasing in his voice, of course, but when he looks her in the eye, Lisa can't help but believe him.

He looks good, all expensive shirt and neat slacks, way too classy for the dive bar they've both found themselves in tonight, but he doesn't seem to care about blending in as he slides his hands up her bare thighs. His breath is warm and sweet against her cheek when he leans in and Lisa closes her eyes when he whispers in her ear, "See, I got my own theory to test out tonight."

Opening her eyes, she raises an eyebrow in challenge. "Oh, yeah? And what theory is that?"

His eyes glitter in the dim light and Lisa feels heat begin to course through her when his hands inch higher. 

He stops just as his fingers brush the curve of her ass and instead reaches up to cup the back of her neck. He draws her in close until their mouths are inches apart and Lisa lets her eyes falls shut as he murmurs against her lips, "I'll let you know when we disprove it."

**+++**

His lips are hot against her throat as Mary gasps out a cloudy breath into the night air.

The light of the bar sign is amber and steady, and even as she looks past it to the scatter of stars above the buildings, she's glad to have some kind of warning system in place. However, flickering lights or no flickering lights, it's hard to concentrate on anything other than the mark he's sucking into her collarbone.

His tongue moves over her skin, firm and wet and smooth and enough of a promise that Mary can barely hold back a moan. 

The hood of the car is cold beneath her, even through the denim of her jeans, and the chill of the night creeps up her spine as she presses forward into the warmth of his body. His hands adjust quickly, settling between her shoulderblades and at the base of her spine to pull her close, and she spreads her legs wider to let their hips slot together.

"God, I love this town," he breathes, his accent far away from the Kansas drawl of most of the town's citizens. "It's nice after life on the road, y'know?"

Mary hums her agreement. She loves Lawrence, loves having a home and a chance to act like a normal girl for once, especially after everything she's seen. "It's nice here."

It's an understatement but her lips curve in a smile to match his when he grins. "That it is." 

He cards his fingers through her hair, more gentle than any of the other boys she's dated, and lets his thumb brush over her skin as he toys with the top button of her blouse. "But that doesn't mean we can't make it even nicer."

His fingers trail down, soft and warm against the swell of her breasts, and Mary licks her lips as he says with a smile, "What do you think, sweetheart?"

**+++**

Arching his back, Sam groans at the heat of the body against his chest.

He still has the hormones of a teenager, even if his body is currently that of an eighteen year old girl instead of an eighteen year old boy, and after a week of Dad and Dean tiptoeing around him, like the curse gave him a migraine instead of a pussy, he's more than happy to be touched for once.

The guy's hands move down his sides, smoothing over the new curves there, and Sam rolls his hips up when the guy's hands reach his ass.

"Look at you," the guy murmurs against his neck. "Beautiful."

It's a girl's compliment. It's also the nicest thing someone's said to him in a week.

His hands move down and around, coaxing Sam's thighs wider apart on the couch while his thumbs stroke over the soft skin of his inner thighs. It's different like this, a different low-down throb of heat, a different ache between his thighs, and when the guy's fingers move over the front of his panties, Sam's willing to bet that he knows how to use this body better than Sam does.

"Don't worry, darlin'," he says, lips soft against Sam's ear. "We can take it slow."

His fingers shift and turn, the heel of his hand pressing against the cotton, and Sam gasps at the shiver that goes through him. 

He curls his hand around the guy's wrist, slim fingers on warm skin, and pushes down in a clumsy plea. The answering chuckle is pressed into his neck and Sam tips his head back with a cry, baring more of his throat as the touches to his pussy grow firmer.

It feels so goddamn good he can barely stand it. His legs tremble when he eases them further apart but Sam doesn't hide his moan at the nip of teeth against his earlobe. 

"Or fast," the guy says with a grin. "I hear fast is good too."


	8. 7.23 - Survival of the Fittest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _How important is lipstick to you, Dean?_ \- Castiel

"Do I look like a chick to you?"

Tommy grins, big hands sliding down Dean's thighs as he tugs him forward into his lap. "Not yet," he says with a wiggle of his eyebrows and Dean laughs.

It's hot out. Their crappy A/C doesn't put up enough of a fight against the smothering heat rolling in off the road but with the warmth of a few bottles of beer buzzing through him, Dean can't bring himself to care about the sweat trickling down his spine. Not when he has Tommy's hands on his ass, anyway.

"C'mon," Tommy says, the mole on his cheek disappearing into his dimple when he smiles. "No-one's gonna see."

He's right. Dad's away on a hunt and Sammy's studying in the safety of the library. Dean's hesitation must read on his face because Tommy seizes the opportunity and coaxes, "Come on, man. You know you wanna see how good it looks."

He rolls the lipstick between his fingers, the shiny purple tube some girlfriend left in his bag and never reclaimed. Dean's had enough to drink to support the notion that this is a decent idea and he slips it from Tommy's fingers with an exaggerated sigh. "You owe me, dude."

"Whatever, Winchester," Tommy says, a playful promise on his lips. "You know I'm good for it."

Dean's spent enough lazy afternoons with Tommy's mouth on his dick to agree with that. Spreading his knees wider on the couch, he uncaps the lipstick and rolls it up, pursing his lips at the dark red that emerges. "Don't I get a mirror or something?"

"Here." Tommy holds up his cigarette case, a tacky brass inheritance from his grandpa, but Dean doesn't raise any more complaints as he leans in, curious to see what the little stick of red will look like on his lips.

It's cooler to the touch than he's anticipating. After it drags a little too much on his slack lips, he soon opens his mouth wider, like he's seen girls do in the car mirrors, to paint his lips into a crimson 'o'.

They look bigger like this, he decides, dropping the lipstick to the couch. They're fuller and shinier, nothing that would look out of place on a girl, and a dirty little pulse of arousal goes through him at the sight.

When he knocks the cigarette case aside, it's to see that Tommy's expression echoes his own reaction. His lips are parted in surprise and he doesn't take his eyes off Dean's mouth when he swallows. "I, uh- It's a good color on you, man."

The embarrassment of trying on the lipstick fades quickly, submerged under the soothing lull of alcohol and the rush of power that comes with the realization of how turned on Tommy is right now. Dean shifts in his lap, resting his arms on his shoulders and grinding down against Tommy's half hard dick through his jeans, as he flashes him a smile from between reddened lips. "You think I'm more a summer or winter complexion?"

"You think I give a fuck?" Tommy says, grinning. His eyes are bright when he leans in, hands cupping Dean's ass, and in the heat of the house, it doesn't take much for Dean to melt easily into the kiss.

Somehow he treats him different like this, like Dean's suddenly more delicate now that his lips are red, but it doesn't take much more than a tug on Tommy's hair and a bite to his lower lip to slide them back on course. Dean kisses fast and rough, tasting the odd plastic of the lipstick on his teeth and tongue as Tommy licks at and over his lips.

He's hard now, dick rubbing against Dean's through the denim, but with the swamping heat and the crush of Tommy's mouth against his, Dean can't do more than grind down with a groan.

"It ain't fair," Tommy says, drawl slipping out between kisses. "How the hell d'you look so damn good in fuckin' lipstick?"

"Talent," Dean deadpans, and pulls back enough to let Tommy laugh.

"Fucker." It's said with a grope of Dean's ass and Dean arches into it with a happy hum of agreement.

Tommy's lips are smeared pink when he rests his head back against the couch. They're plump from the kiss, almost bloody with the streaked red of the lipstick, and from the way Tommy's looking at him, Dean assumes his aren't much different.

His dick twitches at the thought of Tommy wrapping those pink lips around his cock, hardens further at the idea of getting on his knees to do the same, and he presses a firm outline of a kiss onto Tommy's cheek as he says, "So, about you owing me…"


	9. 1.04 - Phantom Traveler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Your dad said you were off at college? ... Well, he was real proud of you, I can tell. Talked about you all the time._ \- Jerry Panowski

"So," Jerry said, wiping his hands on his pajamas. He wished he hadn't picked the ones with little alien heads on them. "Monster hunters, huh? That's-" He watched Dean take out a chunk of his doorframe with a crowbar. "-neat."

"It has its good days," Dean said, flashing him a quick grin before heading out with his crowbar to presumably wreak havoc in the rest of Jerry's house.

John was sitting on the arm of his couch, thumbing through a journal and apparently not caring that the wallpaper was peeling off to spell out 'DIE' on the wall behind him. Jerry sidled over to make conversation.

(He wasn't exactly sure what to say to the two mysterious guys who showed up to expel a poltergeist from his house but he figured it would be impolite not to give it a shot.)

"I, uh, I'm sorry about the mix-up before," he said, perching on the edge of his armchair and breathing a quiet sigh of relief when it didn't try to eat him. "The club's just down the street and what with the priest outfits and the age difference, I just figured you'd gotten lost."

"Don't worry about it," Dean said, breezing back into the room to throw something pungent and purple into Jerry's fireplace. "Happens all the time."

He swept back out again but Jerry was pleased to see a wry smile on John's lips as he spoke up for the first time, "Dean's got a brother, a few years younger. People used to get the wrong impression a lot less often when there were two of them."

"Makes sense," Jerry said. He figured the likelihood of an older surly guy having one awkwardly pretty boyfriend was a lot higher than the likelihood of having two.

"What happened to his brother?" The fate of a kid in a family of monster hunters suddenly seemed obvious and Jerry added, as sympathetically as he could, "Did he, uh- Did something happen on the job?"

"Sam's still alive," John said, saving him any further embarrassment. "Went off to college just over a year ago."

Jerry would've been less surprised if John had said the kid had been eaten by a werewolf. "College, huh? Somewhere close by?"

"Stanford."

"Wow. Good school," Jerry said, trying for cool and gruff but mostly coming out squeaky.

Evidently done with the wallpaper, the poltergeist moved on to clawing marks in Jerry's curtains as John scanned a page of his journal.

Jerry cleared his throat. "Must be a smart kid."

"Smarter than me and his brother," John said, rising to his feet to splash something over the holes in Jerry's curtains. The windows rattled in anger as he did so, with the poltergeist sending a book flying off the shelf towards John's head in retribution, but John batted it away with ease. "He's doing well there. Straight As in all his classes, joined the track team, got himself a girlfriend."

"Sounds like a big change from taking out ghosts," Jerry said with a smile. "You must be proud of him."

Behind them, the windows stopped rattling. Jerry let out a breath, looking to John to see if that was it, if the poltergeist was dead (or re-dead. He didn't know the technical term.) but John just frowned as he glanced at the windows.

Jerry jumped at the solid thump from upstairs. Another one followed, then another and another, each getting heavier until they ended with the unmistakeable thud of a body falling to the floor.

Dean's voice was pained and panicked when he yelled, "Dad!"

"Yeah," John said, answering Jerry's question as he grabbed a poker from the fireplace. His expression were dark and his tone tipped over to sarcastic as he headed out to Dean's rescue with Jerry at his heels. "Yeah, I'm real proud."


End file.
